


a scream inside that we are frightened

by Marishna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Forgotten Ones, Gen or Pre-Slash, Helpful Deaton, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Missing Persons, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Reality, Runes, Secrets, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8352277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marishna/pseuds/Marishna
Summary: "There's only one way to find out. You don't have to go through with this, Stiles. You're well aware that conviction in magic is as important as skill so if this isn't as important to you as you—."
"It is!" Stiles said sharply, feeling the now-familiar ache strum through him, alerting him that something was missing and he had to figure out what it was.
Who it was.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea and the post-movie scene written down for a couple years now, waiting for the right moment to get it down. I'm really happy and excited with the way it came out! It was written for the prompt "facade" for this week's fullmoon_ficlet challenge on LJ.
> 
> It WILL continue, just not sure when.

"Will it work?"

"It's difficult to predict a werewolf's—"

"Will. It. Work?"

Stiles and Deaton stared each other down across a metal lab table in Deaton's veterinary clinic. Between them lay a vial and a pocket knife.

"Scott is in the next room, try it out," Deaton replied.

"What if it doesn't work on him?" Stiles asked while reaching for the vial.

"There's only one way to find out. You don't have to go through with this, Stiles. You're well aware that conviction in magic is as important as skill so if this isn't as important to you as you—."

"It is!" Stiles said sharply, feeling the now-familiar ache strum through him, alerting him that something was missing and he had to figure out what it was.

_Who_ it was.

"Go ahead," Deaton said simply, nodding towards the glass in his hand.

Stiles took a breath as he uncorked the vial, then tipped it back and gulped the bitter-tasting contents down without a second thought. He made a face and dropped the empty vial back to the metal table with a clatter. He reached for the knife and opened it, then pulled another face. 

"This is the part I'm not gonna like," he muttered but brought the tip of the blade to his left palm without hesitation. 

"I needn't remind you about the seriousness of blood magic, do I Mr. Stilinski?" Deaton asked lightly, reminding Stiles of all the teachers in high school who seemed to try to separate themselves from his oddities by being overly formal.

"If this works I'll never have to use this again," Stiles grunted, wincing from the pain as the blade sliced into his skin and he carved the rune, making his palm a bloody mess. Once he was done he grabbed some paper towel and wiped it off quickly, and held his shaking hand up for Deaton to inspect.

Deaton examined Stiles' handiwork and nodded. "That will do. Any time you wish to trigger the facade re-draw the rune and it will reignite the spell. But remember that every time you do, it will get less potent until the draught wears off completely."

"If this works the way I think it will I won't need it for long," Stiles said firmly. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room to find Scott.

He was at the front, finishing up with a patient and sending them on their way. Stiles waited until the woman and her toy poodle were out the door before he stepped up to the counter beside his best friend.

Scott looked over sharply at Stiles and narrowed his eyes. "Sorry, who are you? You're not supposed to be back here. Did Deaton let you in?"

"Yeah, he did. Sorry to startle you," Stiles replied easily, staring hard at Scott.

Scott sniffed imperceptibly, coming off like perhaps he had an allergy to anyone else, but Stiles knew he was being scented. If anyone knew Stiles by his scent it was Scott.

"Dr. Deaton," Scott called, keeping his eyes on Stiles. "I'm done up here if you and your visitor need to ... do whatever."

Scott walked away and disappeared into the back to tend to other animals, passing Deaton on the way. 

"Thank you, Scott," he murmured, then nodded at Stiles. 

Stiles nodded back and let himself out through the front door.

He had a lost werewolf to find.

***

_Before_

It was a normal night. The weather was good, air crisp and clear as the pack stepped out of the movie theatre and started walking down the street to the parking lot. Boyd with his arm draped over Erica's shoulders; Lydia walking arm-in-arm with Allison who was holding hands with Isaac as he snapped his teeth playfully at Malia; Scott and Kira keeping pace with each other and sharing secret smiles. Stiles brought up the rear, thinking about the ending of the movie and pondering the logic of the plot.

He turned to his right, ready to start a debate about the lead character, and—

Oh yeah, there was no one beside him. 

Stiles blinked and looked around, sure there was someone else with them but... but this was it, they were the pack. He was always the last one in the line and he'd drive Malia, Isaac and Allison home, like normal. 

"Stiles, you coming?" Scott called and Stiles' head snapped up. He was almost a half block behind the pack and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk like a moron.

He shook his head and caught up, raising a hand. "Did anyone else think it was _way_ too convenient the way the hero disappeared from that trap and reappeared in the nick of time?" 

Everyone else groaned at him, the king of movie plot-holes, but Stiles couldn't help but look back and feel like there was something he was forgetting.

***

"Why don't we just turn this place into a museum and charge admission?" Stiles grumbled as he sorted through boxes in the garage, tossing items into 'keep', 'toss', and 'donate' bins.

"Don't you think our lives are enough of a sideshow?" John asked as he shifted a stack of boxes from the back where they'd sat for who knew how long.

"Don't you mean freak show?" Stiles replied with a snort.

"I'm not the one that runs with wolves," John threw back with a half grin.

"Har har," Stiles said sarcastically. He flipped through some pages of a random book at the bottom of a box mixed with his old school papers and some toys and found a photo. He took one look and started laughing. "You sure about the museum idea? I think I know of a few people who would pay to see the town sheriff sporting a very '80s Selleck moustache."

Stiles waved the photo over his head triumphantly but when he didn't get a response from his father he looked over and saw him staring down at an open shoe box.

"Stiles," John said slowly. "What the hell is this?" Stiles dropped the photo and joined his father, peering around him to see what he found. 

"Do you know what this stuff is?" John passed the box to Stiles who accepted it with a frown. It looked like an old shoe box of his, he could remember the pair that came in it, but the items inside weren't familiar. He put the box down on a newly-uncovered workbench to look through them.

"This... is Scott's inhaler. Huh. And my old phone! One of them, anyway. I wondered where that got off to!" Stiles shook out a piece of cloth that was crumpled up and gasped when he recognized it. "This is a t-shirt I've been looking all over for! For like..." 

Stiles paused and tried to think about the last time he could remember having it. He knew it was his and knew he'd worn it many times but he couldn't actually pick one particular memory about it.

"Why is there blood on it?" John asked suspiciously, pointing to a conspicuous stain near the hem. Stiles turned it around and wrinkled his nose. 

"I have no idea what that's from. At all. I don't even remember when this thing went missing," Stiles replied slowly. 

"You didn't leave the box in here?" John asked dubiously and Stiles shot him an 'are you kidding me?' look.

"Please, if there was something I was trying to hide from you I think I'd do it better than putting it with the junk in the garage. You know better than that."

John paused, then nodded. "As much as it pains me, you're right."

Stiles picked up the inhaler and studied it curiously. The date on the label said it was a couple years expired now, around the time Scott was bitten by Peter Hale. But why did he have it? Why was it in the box?

"Stiles?" John asked, touching him on the shoulder. 

"This stuff is mine, mostly, but I don't remember putting any of it in here," Stiles said slowly. "I'll ask Scott since this is his. Maybe he knows something about it?" 

John nodded and watched Stiles as he carried the box into the house. Once out of sight Stiles slumped against the wall in the kitchen and exhaled shakily. Where in the hell had this stuff come from? And why couldn't he remember any of it?

***

Scott couldn't help Stiles when he was asked. 

"Maybe you did it while you were drunk?" he suggested unhelpfully.

Stiles frowned at him. "I think I'll ask Deaton."

"Is this old stuff that important?" Scott asked dubiously, poking at the stained t-shirt.

"Na—" Stiles paused, wanting to say that it wasn't and that it was no big deal. That he'd throw the box out and they'd never think about it again. But the words got caught in his throat and he physically couldn't say them. 

"Yeah, it is," he breathed, feeling a crack start to form deep within himself that he couldn't track. "It's really important."

***

"I don't know what to tell you, Stiles," Deaton said later that afternoon after he examined the contents of the shoe box. "I can't detect anything untoward about these items and I'm unsure what you want me to say."

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, and grabbed at the air with his other, trying to find a way to explain to the man what he was feeling. He tried to find the words but they evaded him, slipping out sequence before he could spit them out as if he were trying to explain a dream in the minutes after waking. 

He picked up Scott's inhaler and held it up, gripping it so tightly he was worried it might break in his hand. Instead he managed to somehow squeeze the cap off and it went skipping across the floor, under a rolling cart. 

"Shit," Stiles muttered and dropped to his knees to grab it. He slithered on the floor on his belly, trying to get his hand under the cart lazily, without moving it. As he strained something glinted out of the corner of his eye and he glanced down at the grate, partially hidden under the cart. He scrambled to his knees and shoved the cart aside, uncaring of how it crashed into the shelf behind him. Deaton approached him, probably sure Stiles was losing his ever-loving shit. 

Stiles grabbed at the grate and strained to lift it up, grunting from the exertion. "Help me!" he barked and Deaton calmly leaned down and with his help they hefted it up. Stiles reached in and grabbed the item, pulling it out triumphantly. He scrambled to his feet and opened his hand, revealing what he found.

"It's... a shell casing," Stiles said, confused. Deaton took it from him and examined it for a moment, then sniffed at it. 

"I don't know why there would be a bullet in my clinic, let alone one that contained a strain of wolfsbane at one time," Deaton told him in a hard tone. 

"Wolfsbane?" Stiles repeated. "Are you sure? Maybe it's from when you treated Scott or one of Satomi's pack?"

"No," Deaton replied sharply. "I have my own collection of strains I use when I need to."

Stiles took the shell back and turned it over in his hand, staring down at it as if it could talk to him. That feeling was back, that he was missing something. _Forgetting_ something. His gaze wandered back to the shoe box and he saw the bloodied t-shirt peeking out.

"Can you run a test and tell me whose blood is on that shirt?" Stiles asked.

Deaton picked up the shirt and examined it. "I can't tell you whose it is but I can likely narrow down if it's human or not."

Stiles didn't miss the tone of his words. He nodded. "Do it."

 

***

That night Stiles slept fitfully. He tossed and turned, waking frequently. His head throbbed and he considered popping a couple painkillers to try to rid himself of the pain but stubbornly didn't. Sometime after four was finally able to shut down and drifted off.

_He was angry, so angry._

_He burst into the broken down house, uncaring that the door knob slammed a hole into the wall from how hard he shoved it open. He stood in the dark, dusty, once-great foyer and panted as he seethed._

_"Where are you?" he yelled, words echoing and bouncing brokenly off the stripped ruins. "You can't do this! I won't let you!"_

_"... can't... stop me."_

_Stiles blinked and shook his head, as if trying to clear it._

_"I know you're here!"_

_"Just... alone, ...iles."_

_Stiles reached out a hand to lean against the stair rail to the second floor, legs suddenly unsteady under him. He felt like laying down and sleeping, which seemed like a better alternative than falling face first into a one-way ticket to a tetanus shot._

_"Please," he pleaded weakly. "Please don't do this."_

_"... got no choice. ... for the best."_

_"For **who** ," he whispered, sinking to his knees. _

_The throbbing in his head was back, so strong that Stiles wanted to vomit. He breathed in deeply and slowly, the faint scent of char and dankness so vivid that it jerked him back._

_"No!" he said forcefully. "We can get through this, I swear. I won't let you—"_

_A humourless laugh cut him off. "You'll won't let me what, Stiles? Won't let you die? Be ripped to shreds? ... let Scott? You think Lydia is strong enough... this?"_

_"We can..." Stiles trailed off as his vision went fuzzy at the edges. It would be so easy to lay down and sleep. "Don't do this, 'erek."_

_Stiles struggled to keep his eyes open as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He was slumped down on them, trying to prop his head up in his hands but it was so damn heavy. He saw black boots, jeans, black leather._

_He was drifting, already forgetting. Just a dream._

_Sad hazel eyes met his and Stiles took in the sight of a shock of dark hair, generous stubble across a strong jaw, and a mouth set in a deep frown. A guy he'd only meet in his dreams, Stiles thought and wanted to run his fingers through his hair in this place because it wasn't real._

_So he did because it was his literal and figurative dream guy but before his hand could make contact he was intercepted. His dream guy held his hand fast and tight, strong enough to drag Stiles to consciousness just enough to register—_

_"Derek," he breathed._

_Derek stiffened and let go of Stiles' hand, pushing himself away at once. "It'll be okay, Stiles. I **promise**."_

_Stiles watched as he backed away towards the door._

_"No," he begged faintly. "Don't go. D'leave, 'rek."_

_Derek was in the doorway, staring at Stiles helplessly. Behind him, in the darkness outside the house, or in Stiles' mind, four sets of red eyes appeared._

_**"Derek!"** _

Stiles sat straight up in bed, heart pounding wildly in his chest. He flipped on his bedside light and grabbed at the collar of his shirt, pulling the sweaty fabric away from his skin. 

It was barely five in the morning. Faint light could be seen through his blinds and he could hear the first strains of birdsong greeting the day.

On weak legs and with shaky hands he got to his desk and fumbled for a scrap of paper, writing furiously to get every detail down. If he closed his eyes he could still smell the house around him. He could feel the thick layer of grime and ash on every surface under his skin. He could see the pained lines of Derek's face, even if the details were fading.

As he read and re-read the account of his dream he dug in his hamper for the jeans he wore that day. When his fingers closed around the cold metal of the shell casing he felt an invisible hand around his heart loosen.

He took a deep breath, and another. 

***

"Don't bother testing the blood," Stiles said as soon as Deaton let him in the back door of the clinic. 

"You're giving up?" Deaton asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"No. I remember whose it is. And you're going to help me get him back."


	2. the line had been crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his way out of town, praying his Jeep would hold together long enough for the journey, Stiles made a sharp left turn onto a dirt road.
> 
> He knew this road well. Too well, in his father’s mind, but Stiles had many fond memories of cutting through to the preserve that way. It was what made Stiles unexpectedly decide to take the impromptu journey down this childhood path that was strange.
> 
> Muscle memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you guys this would be updated! It's just shy of a year but it happened! I want to reiterate that the idea for this fic had been bouncing around in my mind for at least a year prior to the first part being posted and before season 6A started. I still don't know what will happen next but this will, indeed, get updated again. Hopefully before almost a year has gone by!
> 
> Written for the fullmoon-ficlet prompt "dust".

On his way out of town, praying his Jeep would hold together long enough for the journey, Stiles made a sharp left turn onto a dirt road.

He knew this road well. Too well, in his father’s mind, but Stiles had many fond memories of cutting through to the preserve that way. It was what made Stiles unexpectedly decide to take the impromptu journey down this childhood path that was strange.

Muscle memory. 

It felt normal to steer the Jeep around ruts and dips in the dirt road; a road that shouldn’t actually be a road. It completed at a dead end where the old rickety remains of a house, long ago abandoned, stood. Stiles pulled up to it and stopped in the yard when his foot automatically pressed the brakes. 

He got out of the Jeep and stared up at the charred remains of what was once a beautiful home. Stiles could vaguely remember seeing pictures of it somewhere, maybe in local history books or a newspaper article. He couldn’t remember when it burned down and…

“Who lived here?” He wondered idly, then froze.

There, in the back of his mind. The feeling that he was forgetting something and it gnawed at his guy as he slowly walked across the yard to the questionable set of stairs to the front porch. They held as he climbed them, trailing his fingers over the worn railing as paint chips flakes off in his wake. 

The far side of the porch sagged and the floor didn’t look steady. Stiles looked around for… anything, really. But there were no footprints left behind in the dirt and soot, no obvious signs of life, no one way to—wait.

Out of the corner of his eye Stiles caught a familiar marking on the deck railing. His heart thumped hard as he slowly approached. 

Gouges in the paint and wood, along the framing for the porch, were claw marks. Deep, intentional. Stiles trailed his fingertips over them lightly, breath caught in his throat. Down below, lighter than the gouges, two initials.

E.R. Erica Reyes.

Stiles felt sick from the discovery, suddenly realizing that the part of him that was missing wasn’t just about _him_. Their whole pack was affected and they had no idea. This place, this burned out shell of a family home, once belonged to _them_. 

Stiles tried the door and wasn’t surprised when it swung open easily. He stepped inside the once-grand house and looked around, taking in the blackened walls and floor, smashed glass and jagged boards that once made full walls. To his right he could see a couple ratty old chairs beside a filthy table. 

At a glance Stiles couldn’t see any obvious clues about who he was looking for and his memory remained unhelpfully clouded as his gaze ran across things that gave him an achingly familiar feeling in his gut. Sighing, he turned to leave because he didn’t have enough time to search the house fully, and truthfully didn’t want to do it on his own.

“I’d probably fall through those,” he muttered when he passed the stairs. 

At the last second, out of the corner of his eye Stiles noticed a disturbance in the dust and dirt on one of the bottom-most steps. He crept closer and pulled out his phone to use the flashlight app to get a better look.

Someone else wouldn’t have noticed this but one of the few things drilled into him from childhood were Boy Scout tracking symbols. He spent an entire summer learning them for the fall but a couple weeks before the group started up again his mom got sick and stayed that way. 

The symbol in front of him on the bottom step was ‘message this way’, indicated by a box made of bits of plaster and drywall, and an arrow pointing to the doorframe to the living room. Stiles turned his flashlight to the doorway and wiped at the coating of filth with his shirtsleeve. He peered in close, trailing his fingers over the wood grain for hints. 

He found what he was looking for on the panel inside the living room, almost six feet up. It was a growth chart, starting about a foot from the ground. The marks at the bottom were too faint for Stiles to read, lost to age and fire long ago. But further up he noticed marks carved into the wood. Initials. 

“C.H.,” Stiles read, running his fingers softly over the light scratches. “L.H. and D.H.”

Immediately Stiles got the clear image of staring down at the shelf the pack signed during the Senior Scribe. He could see the very same initials vividly in his mind, bringing him a sense of bittersweet resignation and … hope? 

“Derek Hale,” Stiles said aloud and something in his chest loosened for the first time in weeks. Then he retraced the other initials. “Cora? And... “ Stiles scratched at his neck in frustration as he tried to remember the other name but it refused to come to him. It didn’t matter though, because when he finally tracked Derek down he could ask what the name is himself. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Stiles announced to the house. There was no reply, of course, but Stiles felt energy backbuilding within himself. He took a final deep breath, trying to hold on to the scent of what he was owed and knew he needed back. 

He took a picture of the height chart but left the arrow, and hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it again.


End file.
